


There's a Radiant Darkness Upon Us

by kataurah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Post Season/Series 07, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Season/Series 08, Romance, re-post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2019-05-21
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kataurah/pseuds/kataurah
Summary: The world felt like it was ending, and where Jaime would have once thought to face such a thing at Cersei's side, now it was his sweet sister who was in part bringing it about, by committing the same atrocities he'd killed his King for all those years ago.So Jaime had rode north. To Winterfell, to Brienne of Tarth, and to death.





	There's a Radiant Darkness Upon Us

**Author's Note:**

> This is a re-post of an older fic that I wrote during the airing of season 7, when we hoped Jaime would go to Winterfell but obviously didn't know what kind of welcome he'd receive. I wasn't too far off the mark in the end. Sorry I took it down.

The new King in the North apparently had a better notion of the conditions in which to keep a high born prisoner than the last one, though Jaime at least had enough sense not to say so out loud. As he was relieved of his armour and sword and shoved none too gently into modest guest quarters, he thought about the heart-pounding terror he'd felt when laying eyes upon Daenerys Targaryen's dragons, flying over the turrets of Winterfell, and considered that he was lucky to have not been engulfed in flames as soon as the girl learned who he was.

The Queen and Jon Snow both wanted him dead; Jaime wasn't even sure he'd expected any other reaction when he'd made the decision to go north. He'd only followed the urge he felt in his very bones, to seek out that one person who continually made him strive to be better than the man he'd become. Who looked at him, saw him clearly, and still insisted he had a shred of honour left.

A woman to whom he felt bonded, but not in the way his bond with his twin had ruled his entire life up to this point, almost consuming him until nothing of his own person remained. Since Harrenhall his life had become forever inexplicably entwined with this other woman's somehow, and hers with his, through shared experience and knowledge of each other's souls. The world felt like it was ending, and where Jaime would have once thought to face such a thing at Cersei's side, now it was his sweet sister who was in part bringing it about, by committing the same atrocities he'd killed his King for all those years ago.

So Jaime had rode north. To Winterfell, to Brienne of Tarth, and to death.

Jaime shivered as he paced within the small space, hard stone absorbing the impact of each footstep and surrounding him in four walls. Enclosed. Trapped. Impenetrable. Winterfell had always seemed to Jaime a bleak and cold place; he could find no warmth here even in the great hall amidst a feast fit for King Robert Baratheon, with roaring hearths lit on all sides. Where flames flickered and wood crackled merrily, casting the scene in a cosy orange glow as men lost themselves in their cups whilst laughing and toasting. The Starks were chilly in their bearing towards him, and so Jaime found their home to be much the same.

His opinion of the place was only reinforced now, with the light failing already so early in the day - or so he _thought_ ; he was no longer sure of how much time had passed since they locked him in here - and the winter winds whipping around the castle, howling like the direwolves the Stark children found all those years ago.

The girls lost their wolves, he remembered; he wondered what had become of the rest of the pack? He wondered if they would let her see him; what exactly did the people she served make of the sword with the lion head pommel forever strapped to her hip? The way, even when she stood at ease, settled and confident in her armour (the only time she ever _was_ ), she still rested her hand upon it. Just as she had when their eyes had met briefly in Winterfell's courtyard when they marched him in.

It had amused Jaime that she had been stood next to his brother - their height difference a bizarre sight - even as both their eyes had widened in surprise and worry when they saw him. He found his long simmering anger toward Tyrion evaporated into sheer relief at the sight of his brother alive. Love of his family had ever been Jaime's weakness no matter what their sins. And Brienne... She looked at him and it was as though her gaze physically tugged at something deep within his chest; like gravity, pulling him towards her. He would have gladly fallen had he not been clad in irons. _Like the first time we met_ , he’d thought.

Tyrion, it was said, was serving as Daenerys' Hand, and Brienne had Sansa Stark's ear. Would they plead for mercy on his behalf? Jaime himself would not.

There were sudden footsteps and a commotion in the corridor outside his room, and Jaime froze at the sound of Brienne's voice.

"... on King Jon's authority!" She said, in that forceful commanding tone he knew so well.

"The Kingslayer-" One of the Stark men began to argue.

" _Ser Jaime_ ," Brienne amended, and Jaime felt a warmth start to grow in his chest, that she should be so stubborn about even _that_..."Is to be treated with the respect of any high born lord, and I wish to speak with him. If you have any objections I suggest you take it up with the King."

Then there was the clank of a heavy lock turning and Brienne entered, the door closing again behind her. She wasn't wearing her armour, just a grey woollen tunic with a heavy fur cloak draped around her shoulders; Oathkeeper remained though, sheathed at her belt. Her blue eyes locked with his, and for a moment they just stood there at either end of the room, gazing at each other. Jaime felt the undeniable weight of the moment, and wondered if perhaps she, like him, was almost afraid to break the silence.

Jaime, as always, fell back on humour,

"You'd think hand cuffing a one-handed man would be rather pointless," He took a small step towards her and lifted his hands, the real and the gold, "If it weren't for this bloody thing." He rattled the cuff for emphasis. Brienne, predictably, did not smile.

She bit her lip, chapped from the cold; she was not even attempting to put on the carefully composed face she'd first worn when she came to him at Riverrun. Her eyes were so bright, they reminded him of sailing through the waters of her homeland.

"What are you _doing_ here?" She took an aborted step towards him, as though she wanted to reach out, and he found himself incredibly aware of the remaining space between them, "You shouldn't be here."

 _I came for you_. Jaime shrugged, "Makes no difference now; here I am."

"Jaime..."

It was astonishing, the effect his name, spoken by her on a sigh - his name alone - had on him. She had never called him thus before, always 'Kingslayer' before Harrenhall, and after that "Ser Jaime." It was an intimacy she had never allowed herself before and his chest tightened, that warmth spreading and staving off the coldness of the room. They were dancing around the reason for his imprisonment and her worry, so Jaime decided to cut to the chase with his usual irreverence.

"So what's it to be? Jon Snow's Valyrian steel or Daenerys Targaryen's dragons?"

Brienne winced and he immediately regretted his bluntness.

"It need not come to that," She said, a little desperately, "Let me help you. If you just told them the truth -"

"The _truth_?" He barked out a bitter laugh that sounded ugly to his own ears, and stalked towards her until he was mere inches away and staring up into her startled blue eyes. "Let's consider the truth, shall we? Regardless of my reasons, I killed the Targaryen girl's father, stabbed him in the back when I swore to protect him. I pushed Jon Snow's eight year old brother from a tower and crippled him because he saw me fucking my sister." Brienne clenched her jaw at his crude and brutal honesty, but did not back away, did not break his gaze. Jaime didn't know why he was suddenly so angry. "I gave my sister children for them to be born as false heirs. I lied to protect them. I stood back and served as Kingsguard to my son, knowing what a monster he was. My son, who took his amusement in abusing and humiliating Sansa Stark and cut off her father's head."

It all came pouring out like pus from a wound; such was Brienne's power over him. Somehow his secrets always spilled out around her, unbidden and uncontrollable, as though just by being near her, her goodness seeped into him and suddenly made all of his sins too much to bear. But he wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know, and that was the reason for his anger, he realised. Perhaps, through the years of being called "Kingslayer", he had been waiting to pay for his crimes. Now that moment had finally arrived and part of him believed he deserved to die. But this impossibly good, stubborn, honourable woman bore witness to his confessions, knew the very worst of him, and still believed he was worth saving.

Jaime sighed, deflating; her eyes were too much, too beautiful and understanding and forgiving, so instead he looked down to where she carried what was left of his honour. He reached out and touched Oathkeeper's hilt: she would damn herself along with him. She still did not move away.

"Are you done?" She asked, with a sort of fond impatience, and the small huff of laughter that escaped him was genuine this time when he looked back up at her.

"I'll make my case to the Dragon Queen and the King in the North," He said, "From what I hear they need every man who can wield a sword on the Wall. Even those with one hand. But Brienne, I won't beg. And I won't let you fight for me."

"Shouldn't I get to decide who I fight for?" Her hand covered his where it still rested over the sword at her hip. The sword she named for him.

He considered how this was the closest they'd been, and the most they'd touched, since she'd caught him in her arms in the Harrenhall baths. Strange that he could distantly remember the feeling of her naked breasts pressed against him but the touch of her hand now felt more intimate.

The closer they became, the further they withdrew.

There were tears beginning to form in her eyes and her bottom lip wobbled; his fate must surely be sealed already, Jaime thought, if she was getting this upset and making no attempt to hide it. Gods, he did not deserve her tears.

Here, in what could be their last moments together, Jaime still couldn't sort through the tangled web of feelings Brienne inspired in him. Respect, trust, faith... He understood those things. He even understood the need to be closer to her, to touch her, to reverently trace the callouses on her sword hand with his own, or caress the pale, soft skin, the scars, hidden beneath her layers of clothing. He'd never before wanted to kiss a woman other than Cersei, but he did so now; not because Brienne was beautiful - though she was in all the ways that truly mattered - but because it was the only way he could show her everything he was feeling. They both were people of action rather than words, and Jaime had no words for it. He just knew he felt so _much_ it was as though his chest had been cracked open, spilling forth all of this... this...

Was this love? Was this what it was _supposed_ to feel like? He had, of course, always associated love with the twisted and consuming pleasure and pain between himself and Cersei. This was not the same; Brienne made him want to be better.

He wanted to put his arms around her, just _once_ , but his hands were still bound, so instead he stepped closer until they were softly pressed against one another, their hands caught between them, and tilted his head up, leaning in until his nose brushed against hers. Eyes closed, Jaime heard Brienne's breath hitch and felt her other hand gently grasp his forearm just above where his golden hand was strapped to his stump. Then she rested her forehead against his and sighed his name again.

" _Jaime_.”

The darkness was closing in all around them, but there, in the middle of that cold room, Jaime drew upon Brienne's light and strength, just as he had in the dream that saved them both. He saved her life and in return she saved his soul.

"It's been a long time coming, my lady." He could have been talking about his impending execution, or their current embrace; it all seemed so inevitable now. _Wasn't hindsight a_ _bitch?_ Jaime thought. What they could have been in another life...

Brienne sniffled, nuzzling a little further into him, and he felt wetness upon her cheek; her breath was warm against his lips, "You don't deserve to die."

"There are some who'd say I deserve a lot worse." Though what exactly could be worse than being roasted alive by dragon fire he wasn't quite sure.

Brienne drew another shaky breath. This close, with his eyes closed, every other sense of Jaime's was heightened and attuned to her; every minute shift of her body, the smell of fur and wool and steel, the clammy chill of her skin from the wind and the snow where their heads rested together and their fingers tangled over Oathkeeper's pommel. She trembled ever so slightly as she wrestled with her emotions, but clutched him a little tighter.

"They don't _know_ you." She whispered fiercely, and Jaime tried to swallow down the lump in his throat because he realised she was right: nobody knew him like she did. Cersei only ever had a version of him in her head that suited her, as perhaps he did for her as well.

Jaime could not pretend he wasn't as blind to certain aspects of his twin as she was to him. Cersei didn't care for honour or knightly vows; she didn't care for the parts of himself he'd thought lost until he met Brienne. She wouldn't have understood even if he'd tried to explain it to her. And to some extent, neither did Tyrion. To his little brother, who'd been called names all his life, Jaime did the smart thing when he killed the Mad King, no matter what people ended up whispering about him behind his back.

And surely, he thought, no one knew Brienne quite like he did either? He was privy to her pain and trials just as she was to his. The things that had happened, the things they'd survived, they alone knew the truth of their experiences, and, as such, nobody else could understand the connection between them. Jaime could scarce understand it himself.

"And who am I, then?" He was aiming for a light, teasing tone, but when he drew back just enough to look up at her, her eyes struck him to the core; wet, red-rimmed and sapphire blue. _Damn her eyes._

 _Kingslayer_ , whispered the voices from over the years. _Oath breaker, sister fucker, man without honour._

"You're Ser Jaime Lannister," She said, and her fingers seemed to unconsciously rub over the place where his metal hand was strapped to scarred flesh. Her touch was warm even through the soft leather of his tunic, "You are a knight, and I know there is goodness and honour in you."

It was impossible not to kiss her, then.

His lips brushed hers, feather light, and she remained firm and unyielding for a moment, unsure. Just a little more pressure though and she gasped, opening to him, and Jaime fitted her full bottom lip between his own. She kissed him back tentatively and clumsily, and Jaime realised this was probably her first kiss willingly given. He took it slow and she mimicked his movements, learning the rhythm of each other just as they had danced with swords when they first met.

Jaime had barely gotten to taste her though when they heard raised voices echoing down the corridor outside the door, and Brienne broke the kiss, startled. She glanced towards the door, and distantly Jaime thought he heard Jon Snow's voice, but he was momentarily distracted by the sight of Brienne, freshly kissed by him. Her cheeks were flushed, thick lips red and wet, eyes bright; anyone who walked into the room now would have no doubt about what they'd been doing.

"Lady Brienne!" There was anger in Jon Snow's voice and Jaime frowned, a sudden thought occurring to him.

"Brienne, did you lie when you said the King gave you permission to be here?" Brienne's big blue eyes were still glimmering with tears, but defiant. She was glorious and Jaime felt a surge of pride. He grinned, "My honourable Maid of Tarth."

Her face crumpled in an agonising mix of pain and love, " _Yours_ ," She confirmed, in a whisper that hit him like a knife to the chest.

The door flew open and Jon Snow marched into the room, flanked by Stark men. His eyes flitted between the two of them as Brienne backed away from Jaime slowly, unashamed that Snow had seen them standing so closely; Jaime mourned the loss of her touch.

“A word, my lady?” Gods, that frosty, judgemental tone; he sounded so much like his father. Brienne nodded to her King, but still lingered at the threshold of the door, looking back at Jaime.

“Brienne...” He murmured, unable to say anything more in the face of everything that remained unsaid between them. _Be careful_ , he wanted to say. _Don’t fight for me. Don’t sacrifice your honour or your life. I love you. Goodbye..._

Perhaps she heard him anyway; perhaps, as always, words were not needed. There was strength and vulnerability in those eyes, her mouth trembled, and then she was gone.


End file.
